How to Save a Life
by Iellix
Summary: Danny Quinn is depressed; she expects she knows why, and takes a both unplanned and uninvited trip into his psyche. And her own. Danny/OC, one-shot. Rating for language, sex, drugs, and death.


For some time now I've been conjuring an OC in my head to exist opposite Danny Quinn; I originally thought of her at the end of the third series, because I assumed Danny wasn't coming back, and I invented this character in an AU third-series because I adore Danny and think he needs some more love. This character's name is Naomi Einhorn, and she's become something of a person in her own right—she seems to have taken her characterization and run with it like an Olympic decathlete with a baton. Her story (pared down) is as follows:

_An old school friend of Connor Temple, Naomi is extremely intuitive, perceptive, and practically intelligent. After moving back to the US with her family in her teens, she fell headlong into a world of drugs, sex, and the criminal underworld. A recovered drug addict and former sometime-prostitute, her experiences provide a backdrop to working with all kinds of people and situations on the fly, assessing every scenario and adapting her approach accordingly. Now an adult and back on the right side of the law, she's come back to England where she was hired by the Arc on her old friend's suggestion to help contend with 'the human element' of the Anomaly Project. She is also impetuous, impulsive, loud, and reflexively insubordinate. Her relationship with Danny Quinn is part affection, part animosity. Ex-cops and ex-hookers are some of nature's natural enemies. _

This is the first formal fic featuring Naomi; until now it's been a few loosely connected ficlets relegated to Livejournal. I thought this one was good enough to merit sharing. The title comes from the song by The Fray.

* * *

_Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend_

_Somewhere along in the bitterness_

_And I would have stayed up with you all night_

_Had I known how to save a life..._

* * *

Danny was certainly fond of his drink—she knew that. Sometimes she joined him, though not too often—too much of that and she risked slipping back into old habits. Still, she was more than happy to let him and then to babysit him when he overdid it, which in fact was frequently. But he was a good-natured drunk, jovial and affectionate, and he didn't spend every other day in the bottle so she never worried. In any case, if he _really_ overdid it she gave him a good chewing-out over it and he apologized quite meekly.

But this was different. He'd been in a vile mood since Wednesday and was quietly drinking himself into a coma at every spare moment, on his own time and at work. He snapped at everyone, growling and being downright mean. He yelled at Connor over a simple technical hiccup that locked him out of the gents for twenty minutes; he started a fistfight with Becker that was quickly broken up by Lester, at whom he spit venom. He was dismissed for the day after that, and everyone watched with concern as he stalked out of the building and straight in the direction of the nearest off-license.

Naomi watched him from the front windows, debating briefly if she should follow him—but Lester and everyone else were already annoyed and angry enough without her sneaking out, as well. It was near enough time to go, anyway, barring any unforeseen circumstances. Unfortunately, more than half of their work consisted of unforeseen circumstances. So she busied herself pretending to work and watching the clock until it was _exactly_ five in the evening at which time she ran out of the building like her ass was on fire and ignored the stares and calls.

She didn't have too far to look for Danny. He was sitting in a seedy pub a few miles away, drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey and swearing at anyone who got close. She made her way right over, ignoring the few whistles and catcalls; one young man tried to stop her from getting too close to him.

"Miss, that bloke is bad news. He's been a right bastard since he got in here."

"It's all right," she said gently. "I've got a degree in right bastards."

She calmly came up and sat in the stool next to him, facing the opposite way and leaning back on the bar, looking over at him.

"Hey, you," she purred.

"No offense or anything Naomi, but fuck off."

"Ooh, aren't we in a right mood tonight."

"I don't want to deal with you or anyone else right now." He took another drink from the bottle and grunted like a truffle pig.

"I know," she said, her voice even and soft and gentle. She reached over and wrapped her fingers around the bottle—she didn't know what he would do, but beyond gripping the bottle tighter for a few seconds he made no move to stop her from taking it. "That's why I'm here. When people say shit like that, it's when they need someone the most."

"Don't use your psychobabble on me, munchkin. Won't work. Just let me be."

"No," she said flatly. "Barman!"

She paid his tab and took him from his perch by force—or as much force as was necessary. He resisted for a few seconds but eventually he relented and let her lead him from the bar and into the greasy spoon across the road; she had no money for a cab, and there was no way in hell or on earth she was going to drape him over her motorbike and take him home in his condition. He'd fall off right on the motorway. She poured him into a booth and got him two very strong cups of coffee.

"Come on," she cooed. "Sober up, Danny."

"No," he whinged.

"Now, now, don't be immature."

He stared at her through narrowed eyes across the table, but she knew he wasn't going to do anything. Whatever was eating him, he wasn't going to hurt her. His punch-out with Becker that afternoon had been extremely unexpected—Danny Quinn was as gentle as a kitten. He fussed and growled and tried to push her off, but eventually he drank his coffee and didn't make any noises when Naomi stepped outside to tip the rest of the whiskey down a storm drain. She sat along the booth seat opposite him, silent, as he drank what she brought him and had another cup of coffee and some toast.

With that he calmed down a little, enough that he could sit upright unaided and she felt all right taking him home on the back of her bike. She brought him back to the Arc's car park and set him up on the back of the saddle and he held onto her for dear life-his whole body shaking-as she roared off down London's streets.

His flat was dark as she brought him up. He was nearly doubled over as he leaned on her—the seventeen-inch height difference between them bordered on farcical-and she held him up as she negotiated the door and let them both in. She dumped him rather unceremoniously on the sofa and went to put on some more coffee for him.

"I'm sorry," he said once she made her way back to him. He looked a little green around the gills—pale up to his ginger hairline and shivering slightly.

She shrugged it off as if he'd just accidentally nudged her in a queue. Again they were silent, him trying to stop the room from spinning and her sitting in the overstuffed easy chair with her feet braced on one arm. She watched him a few moments, her face unreadable and her eyes searching him like she expected he had some hidden picture on him. Finally she asked point-blank, "So who was it, then?"

Danny's head snapped up and his eyes went wide, staring at her with a mixture of fury and shock. "What... did you say?"

"Am I wrong?" She asked lightly. "You have 'redemption complex' written all over you."

"Why? Why do you know these things? If Connor let you read my file I'll break his knees."

"Oh, stop your histrionics," she scolded him like a child. "Nobody showed me anything. I figured it all out on my own. That _is_ why they hired me, it shouldn't surprise you I've been looking into everyone I work with. Call it practice."

"Nosy."

"So who was it?" She asked again, moving to sit on the arm of the sofa next to him. She reached out to stroke his hair but he recoiled violently. Her mouth quirked slightly, a shallow dimple forming in her left cheek. "I'm gonna guess it was probably a sibling or something. Younger."

He didn't answer.

"Probably a brother, a lot younger than you are, I figure."

"Stop."

"Mom always told you, look out for him. Keep an eye on him. Look after him. Take care of him. You took it as gospel."

"Naomi..."

She didn't—wouldn't—stop. "And then one day something happened and you weren't there and didn't or couldn't look after him and something happened. And logically that makes it your fault—whatever happened to him, whatever it was, it's on you."

_"STOP!"_ He roared and lunged at her to knock her from her perch but his reflexes were slow; she could have easily moved away but she stayed put, let him grab her shoulders with bruising force and didn't utter a peep. He stood before her, crushing her shoulders in his hands and pressing her down and staring at her with anger distorting his face into an ugly mask. She looked up at him, her eyes big but her expression betraying nothing, not even fear. "Naomi, stop it. Shut up, for fuck's sake. Just shut up. You have no idea. You can't even... _imagine."_

"Oh, can't I?" She asked. "Why not?"

He didn't answer, just kept squeezing her shoulders like he wanted to shatter her bones. It hurt, but she didn't say or do anything.

"Could you let go, please?" She asked after a few moments. "That smarts."

He hesitated for a second before releasing her and giving her a shove, throwing her balance off and watching coldly as she landed gracelessly on her backside on the bare wood floor. She sat up but stayed on the floor, as if there was no point in getting up or she'd end up right back again.

"Mind if I smoke?" She asked.

He gave a grunt and half a shrug and she interpreted that as a yes. She rooted in her bag for her cigarettes and lighter, sitting calmly in the near-darkness. She flicked the ash off into a plate that had been left on the coffee table before speaking again.

"When I was on the strip near Harlem, I had a friend."

Danny didn't say anything; he didn't give any indication he'd heard her at all, but she kept talking anyway.

"Her name was Yannee. Yannee Dewit. She was... amazing. She was Ethiopian—smart as a whip, spoke four languages and played the piano. Sometimes she'd go into bars and play for tips. It was better than, well, you know. And she was probably the most beautiful woman I've ever known—perfect hourglass, kinda fair-skinned, freckles. Big smile. Big green-yellow eyes."

He grunted, sitting back on the sofa and tilting his head back and pressing a hand over his eyes.

"We were best mates, you know? We shared books and shoes and clothes and did each other's makeup. We went to movies and gossiped in coffee shops. She was Jewish, too, and we never worked on the holidays. We made sure of that. Really, in a lot of ways it was just like any other girlfriends in their twenties, except that... a few times a week, we'd tart ourselves up, and go out on the street, and ride in cars with strangers. We even did that together. If she didn't like the look of someone, I didn't go with him; if I didn't, then she didn't go either. We bought from the same dealers and made sure our needles were clean."

"Why are you telling me this?"

She took a long drag and blew a plume of smoke straight up. "One night," she went on, ignoring his question. "One night, I was... well... to be perfectly honest I was completely fucked up. Good night, the night before. I sort of went on a bit of a binge. When she was ready to go out I was still off with the faeries. She wanted me to come with her, she didn't want to go out alone. I said I couldn't—I didn't think I could stand upright and in my condition I'd've been down at the precinct in two minutes. A drug charge on Staten Island is a death sentence. So... Yannee went out on her own."

Another long drag. She made a choking noise and shook her head quickly, as if bothered by flies.

"And she never came home."

That made him look up. He looked down at her on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest with her free arm.

"The next day when the fog cleared I realized what had happened. I couldn't even begin to guess where to look-I didn't know who she'd gone with, or when, or where. I wasn't there for her. I didn't tell her not to go with him, whoever he was. I couldn't tell anyone what car she'd been in, or a plate number, or a description, or a time. I put out fliers, and talked to everyone I knew and even everyone I _didn't_ know. But, well... no use. I didn't expect it to be. She just became another name on a list of missing streetwalkers. Nothin' the cops could do. Nothin' anyone else _cared_ to do. She didn't have family, just a few friends who were also on the strip. And who the fuck cares about some missing crack whore?"

"Naomi..."

"That followed me, you know. For years. I kept thinking I could have done something. I should have gone with her. I shouldn't have let her go alone. Should have, could have. I even went clean for a little while and scraped my money together to try and pay for a private investigator, but I didn't even have enough information to give a starting point. When I was... well, when Ontario happened, I hoped a little bit that maybe it was the same guy and he knew what happened but... it's not like men who kill hookers are hard to come by."

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"I'm not," she said. "Because it wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't kill her. I didn't deliver her to the man who did. For a long time that's what it felt like I'd done, but I didn't. I'm not at fault. I never was. I still miss her, and I still think it was a horrible, terrible waste. Yannee could have done so much. But she didn't get the chance. But, I haven't time for guilt, or shame. Life is too short. If I felt guilty or ashamed or regretted all the bad things I'd done in my life, I wouldn't have time to do anything else. There's more to life than that. It is... a huge disservice to the dead to waste the life we have."

She looked up at him and smiled so brightly it was heartbreaking.

Danny leaned forward and put his face in his hands, as if to cry. Cautiously, Naomi rose and inched over, settling her hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but didn't push her off or pull away.

"He was my baby brother," he whispered. "He would have been thirty, tomorrow."

She stroked his hair gently. "How old was he?"

"Fifteen." He sniffled and let out a long, shaky breath. "I told him... I _told_ him not to go with them. Bloody kids... bloody _fucking_ kids!" He yelled, then smashed his fist down on the coffee table, splintering the wood and cracking all the bones in his hand.

"Well, that wasn't very clever, now, was it?" It was meant to be scolding but her voice was so soft that the meaning of her words was lost.

"I wanted him to stop hanging around that crowd, I didn't... didn't think they were any good. A bunch of punks. But he told me, it's all right Dan. They're just mates. I'll be back by dinner. And then... that was it."

"Danny," she said firmly, inching over until he made room for her next to him. She sank into the seat and put her arm around his shoulders, hugging him. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he turned and collapsed against her shoulder, sobbing. She clucked softly and murmured softly in his ear; she stroked his back and held him like a child. "It is _not_ your fault," she whispered firmly.

"I know."

"You didn't do _anything."_

"I know. I didn't stop him."

"Could you? If you'd tried? Would he have listened to you, if you'd _told_ him not to go? Would you have been able to pick him up and lock him in his room like a dog?"

"I don't know—maybe—"

"No, Danny. No maybes. No whatifs. Life isn't about that."

"Well what _is_ it about, then, you bloody great goddamn philosopher?" He snapped, breaking from her hold.

She smiled, a sad little teary-eyed smile. "Life, Danny Quinn, is for living. You might do well to remember that."

She ashed her spent cigarette, then picked her bag up from the floor and started to stand.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Stay," he said gently. "Please."

Her mouth twitched.

"Okay."


End file.
